


if i sit still, maybe i'll get out of here

by Anonymous



Series: this town needs guns [2]
Category: Lunch Club (Podcast), SMPLive, The Misfits (Podcast), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:28:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: jschlatt considers himself a relaxed man. he moves slowly, thinks slowly, talks slowly. decides fast, when it really matters.he's dealt with some of the most abominable shit under the sun protecting this city. just the other night, he was almost shot by a good friend for killing a snake masquerading as her best friend - but that's another awful story for another awful day.so when wilbur soot appears on his desk, wild-eyed and loose-limbed and quite possibly upside down, he takes it coolly in his stride and only screams a little bit.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: this town needs guns [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626496
Comments: 14
Kudos: 56
Collections: Anonymous





	1. the story so far

recap!

 _wilbur soot is doing fine_  
streamer and volunteer wilbur soot is fatally stabbed in a city-wide raid on supply stores across symp city, one of many habitable shields dotting a broken earth. madi, his partner, is concussed and they are both saved in the nick of time by other members of the well-organised goop gang. carson, his boss and friend, meets with wilbur to discuss the incident. instead of resting up in the infirmary, he finds a conference room to thank travis, cooper and schlatt for their role in his survival. they discuss the attacks and begin to argue. travis is revealed to be an empath. he is a trace (one of four classes of specially abled people called atypicals) and demonstrates his power as such. wilbur is also atypical, but he is a twitch - someone who can move through and manipulate the physical realm at will. thanks to the poisoned knife, his powers are functionally useless. he streams, announces his new job and feels validated.

  
_died by the living man_  
wilbur has a morphine-induced nightmare about being hunted down and discriminated against, impossibly outside the shield. after waking up in the infirmary he realises the extent of his injuries. he also reflects on ted; his powers as a temper, his decision to put wilbur in the field and his absence from madi's side. she lets wilbur leave to make a meeting. charlie and noah are introduced during the talk, which clarifies that they will be meeting the misfits to discuss the attacks - and he's been picked as the negotiator. they meet and talk briefly, coming to the conclusion that neither party would be so destructively violent. schlatt surreptitiously takes a blood sample from fitz before shooting him in the head.

  
_nothing of note_  
ted tempers the misfits in an attempt to quell reactionary violence, an agonisingly nauseating feeling that can be equated to a combination of dysphoria and phantom limb syndrome. toby shoots schlatt anyway, and wilbur pushes himself to unconsciousness attempting to stop it. carson rewinds time to tell wilbur to save schlatt. he does so, pushing himself too far as in the first timeline. it is revealed that the body is in fact not fitz' but a poser; someone who physically alters their body to resemble a celebrity. a brief scripted intermission details wilbur's failing relationship with soothouse before taking the goop position. he wakes to guns on him and carson and the group's power dynamic is examined. their identities are eventually tenuously verified and the group relaxes together, until wilbur recieves a fateful call.

  
_this self-imposed cell_  
carson and wilbur are called out as humanitarian aid to the base of the jankers, a family gang made up entirely of children and young adults. its leader, nic, clearly blames wilbur for the attacks and is insulted by his patronising tone. they meet an anxious young turn called grunk who comes from a more religious shield and despises his own atypicality. carson demonstrates to him the benefits of having powers and convinces grunk to recieve a formal education. when the gang is threatened, he shows a harder side of his character and his value to the group. wilbur pieces together a horrible truth and finds he has regained his atypical powers, just in time to twitch into schlatt's office.

  
act two will be in schlatt's perspective, and has a loose plotline planned that will wrap up current subplots and introduce new ones. that said, we'd love to hear your suggestions and ideas below! what, who and where would you like to see in the story? what concepts would you rather were elaborated on further? is there anything we could have done better? thank you, and **watch this space**.


	2. sweaty of palm and tongue tied tight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a massively long or plot heavy chapter! literally just set-up and vibing i hope it gets people excited :]

you consider yourself a relaxed man. you move slowly, talk slowly. decide fast, when it really matters.

as jschlatt, you've dealt with some of the most abominable shit under the sun protecting this city. just the other night, you were almost shot by a good friend for killing a snake masquerading as her best friend - it was a whole thing. but that's another awful story for another awful day.

so when wilbur soot appears on your desk, wild-eyed and loose-limbed and quite possibly upside down, you take it coolly in your stride and only scream a little bit.

"sorry," wheezes all six foot five of uninvited guest, crouching on your best mechanical keyboard like a particularly sizeable cat. 

what follows is optimistically a garbled and undecipherable mess of feverish blubbering. every time he moves, more of your shit goes flying. coffee splashes over an admin databook and it fizzles. but, as everyone knows, jschlatt is considered a relaxed man.

"slow down," you instruct as soon as you're sure your voice won't wobble, more to yourself than anyone else. "breathe." there's a spreading beige stain on your tie when you inspect it. you sling it over a shelf of databooks and it clatters sadly to the floor. "and for fuck's sake, wilbur, kindly do sit on the goddamn chair."

"sorry," he says again, and promptly falls off the table. stationery scatters after him. "i-hm. one moment, if you please."

as he uprights himself, you take the opportunity to appraise his disposition. you haven't seen wilbur much since everything started going down. borderline sobbing aside, he's in a bad way. 

it takes you a moment to notice how much he's sweating; his fringe is plastered to his forehead. his dark eyes are red-rimmed and have an exhausted lusterless sheen. nothing healthy, that's for damn sure. something huge and ugly has crowded out wilbur's usual put-together charm, and now the onus is on you to deal with it.

also, he has this discomfiting habit of looking people right in the eye until they can't hold his gaze. and he's doing it right now.

"so, you wanna..." suddenly you're queasy. "you wanna talk about something? we need to chat?" you lean back in your seat, an effigy of poise, and it wobbles disconcertingly. someone's swapped out yours for the faulty one again - at this point it's almost funny. "i'm still a little confused as to why you didn't just use the door. aren't you tempered?"

in lieu of an answer, wilbur leans over without replying to yoink a pencil and a piece of scrap paper. he scrawls in the unpractised and looping hand of those spoon-fed an education by digital schoolfeeds, but you catch on quick enough.

_is the office bugged_

alarm bells ready themselves for action in a deep and sunless corner of your brain. after all, conversations that start this way don't tend to end up about the fucking weather.

**I COVERED THE CAMERAS ALREADY**

your neat, blocky print looks somehow wrong under his distressed scrawl. sweaty palms make it hard to grasp the pencil, so you drop it into his palms. under the table, your outfit is soothing and at hand. it's mild to moderately fucked, but you can't stop thinking about what it would be like to just hoist it over your shoulder and leave. you could do it. of course you won't, but you could.

someone sniffs expectantly.

_mics???_

**NO IDEA SORRY**  
**WAIT WHAT'D YOU WANT TO TELL ME**  
**IS IT AN HR THING BC I MIGHT NOT BE THE BEST GUY TO GO TO**  
**ツ**

_no itş_

he shoves the lead down into the paper after the _s_ in clear exasperation, fretful as a child.

"apologies. don't have much practice." practicing writing was your youth, a privilege that has always served you well. certain people will pay oodles for fancy forgeries, even as they give you the stinkeye for knowing how.

"no worries." you are dizzy with worry, full to the brim and bursting with it. all of this could come crashing down. paranoia whispers that it will.

_~~no itş~~ _  
_its carson_

a barking laugh chokes itself out of you - that's almost the last thing you expected - but instead of elaborating he glowers at the pencil like it has personally insulted him.

**IT TENDS TO BE**  
**WHAT ABOUT CARSON IN THE SPECIFIC**  
**(SIDE NOTE THIS IS SO SLOW)**

_ye fair but safer than the tower net_  
_theres no nice way to say it_  
_i think carsons a poser + we ne_

fuck. fuck. no. no, that's not-

you tear the paper away from wilbur's astonished, treasonous hands and rip it into halves. then quarters, then eighths. he stares without comment as you pour the twisted confetti into what remains of your coffee, but scrunches up his nose in a way that strikes you as decidedly miffed. between one blink and the next, he disappears and reappears leaning against the shelf.

"well, there was really no need for that," he points out, curiously overlaid with a clipped and formal inflection that has never sounded less like his own.

you are surprised to recognise it as a threat.

"get out of my office," you tell him in a raw whisper. it's not something you say very often. the imperative weighs sharply on your tongue, sawdust shrapnel complicit in each uncertain word. wilbur is fucking floored.

"wha-"

"get out!" repetition makes it no more tasteful, and you swallow thickly over a lump that wasn't there before. "i need to think, fuck. fuck, wilbur!"

you're relaxed. you're relaxing right now, actually. you're so relaxed you could die. you could melt through your seat and never have to face this mess of politics ever again. but you can't, not with that searching look focused on you even when you stare resolutely at the messy desk.

"why are you still here?"

scowling up at wilbur and his stricken expression, his outrage easily forgotten in the face of your own, you despise the burgeoning softness you find there. it will be ground away by this job, and you despise that too.

"i got a glimpse of ty today when i was leaving the jankers'," he says quietly. "he was...he was really something, schlatt. you'd be so proud." and there's no answer to that, is there?

cradling the mug to your chest, you stand from your litechair and walk towards wilbur with purpose. agreeably enough, he takes a long step backwards out of the door and holds it open for you to follow. he's got the wrong idea.

massaging your temples, you slam the door in wilbur's stunned face.

 _stupid, stupid._ your head is pounding. that was more for show than anything else, but you trust he won't twitch back inside after that debacle of a conversation. sifting through this maelstrom of thought, addressing the consequences of what wilbur just said, is going to take hours of contemplative solitude.

you sneeze and carson's sat in your chair. it almost falls out of the air there and then.

"hey, bud," says your boss, all competent cheer. "sorry for intruding. what did wilbur want, anything important? he left lunch pretty quick. my guy looked stressed." his scrutiny veers to your lack of a tie, to the heat in your cheeks, to the debris on the carpet, and grows speculative. unlike some people, he's not easy to read.

what exactly compels you to lie with such vigour you couldn't say. you trust carson, fully and completely. and yet.

"he's got this ridiculous crush on one of the interns," you fabricate from thin air, pretending to sip from your drink. your mitts are jittering so dramatically that it's a wonder your nails don't rattle on the porcelain, but carson is too busy letting out a relieved sigh to notice. _relieved. why is he relieved?_

"oh, that makes sense," he purrs. does it, really? god, he's been so weird lately. the despondent dismay that wells up in you at the implications of that thought almost reveals you there and then. "wait, which?" it hedges between conversational and interrogative. 

"niki," you devise in a monotone, inwardly cringing. you'll apologise later. "the new supervisor's shadow. she has a kind of, i wanna say, north eurafrican accent? very nice girl."

"ah, we've met. then i'll be sure to put in a good word for him," carson smiles, and you beam broadly back with both elbows almost flat against your head. if he notices the knotted tension of your interlocked fingers on your neck, he doesn't say so.

"how are the plans going?"

work. you can do that. you reel off some happy numbers regarding food distribution, which is really more josh's area but you've been doing your best to help out. when you're the tactics guy, there's a lot of downtime - and now more than ever there are always people who need what you have. 

maybe with ted's help you can find the supply rotas and actually go out into the city. it's high time you started actually talking to the people you're supposedly here to protect.

"out of interest," and the frosty, friendly tone nicks the space behind your eyes, a migraine building in the backstage. snapping out of your thoughts presents you with an odd tableau; carson, holding up your duffel bag with a visage like baffled glass. "why do you still have an outfit? you've lived here like a year."

"just in case, bro." 

not exactly a lie, but not exactly an answer neither. for the ninety-nine percent, home is everything you own in a carry-all. despite your luck with the scholarship thing, you've never thought so highly of yourself as to just _abandon_ it. when this whole operation inevitably bites the dust and you're out on your ass? when, when and not if that happens, those databooks and ration bars and portable furniture cubes you picked up last year are going to be all you have to your name. _just like anyone else._

_just like everyone else._

_just like every other-_ and you stop that thought there, because it's edgy and it's heavy and he's staring at you like a robohound on the scent of a high-class homicide.

"you're always gonna be safe here," he promises sedately, sugar sympathetic. his pity is acidic (and antipodal to the normal uncritical banter you share) and you begin to think that maybe, maybe wilbur was onto a trick. "right! okay." satisfied by your dumb silence as an admission of trust, carson blinks something rapidly into his lens and readies himself to turn away. 

as far as you're concerned, you could sleep forever and still feel so very drained as in this moment. you've just lied to someone who may or may not be your boss and buddy. he sure as hell looks like it. 

a residual jolt of adrenalin still sparks through you when he sighs, attempting not to crush the doorhandle, and pushes it down with his elbow instead. you don't insult him by offering to help.

"ryanp's organised a dinner tomorrow, by the way. it's just for the newsnets. no pressure, i know it's pretty public-"

"no!" you squawk, forgetting yourself. his eyebrows begin to climb, and you wish you had your hat to excuse you from them. "i mean-no, it's fine, yeah. i'm down with it."

"if you're sure. i'd really appreciate it." the sharkish smirk carson offers crinkles him around the eyes into the person you know.

"yeah, no, of course. i'll be there. who's coming?"

"the eight of us, obviously." that means travis. "uh, plus joko." christ. "josh, if he can make it...angel, hopefully?" is it his imagination that he pauses? "oh, and, and toby. toby too."

you feel rather than notice the blood draining from your own face as carson counts off on his prosthetics. for days now you've been deliberately avoiding travis for obvious reasons, and toby's a whole 'nother issue to work through. you're no more ready to shake hands with your would-be assassin than at the time, and especially not in public.

joko, though. joko is something else entirely.

the word gang, nowadays, means family. it means home and belonging, it means a purpose and a cause that you can even choose if you're lucky. money, glory, a tribe, wherever floats your boat. sometimes toeing the thin blue line, sometimes outside of the constraints of the law - the common thread is a bond that runs deeper than blood. fuck, even the biggest megacorps are gangs in their own sick way. can you blame people for running to them in times like these?

but back in the golden oldies, when your parents were just kids, a gang was usually a bad thing. they would accept angry teens (admittedly a practice slightly less socially acceptable at the turn of the millenium), then convince them to embrace crime in a world where 'law enforcement' was still a term entertained in serious conversation.

of course those gangs still exist. but in your humble opinion they're all bark and no bite. there's no style or class in senseless violence. or so you've always thought - and not much longevity either.

goop's publicist, a streamer netnamed joko, strikes you as the kind of guy who could run a gang like that and do it very well indeed.

you've nothing against the man yourself, but there's some kind of deep-rooted animosity between him and carson that no amount of charity work can transcend. he's very good at his job. you'll be keeping an eye on him.

looking up to reply, you find that carson's already left to some more salient place. this room that you've been hiding in and tripping over your words in and building up a fortress of productivity in for days now is empty, regardless of your moping presence. you are alone in your ruined office, and there's a dent in the door, and it's about time for dinner. 

to be candid, you're pretty damn hungry.


End file.
